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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295797">if the sky is pink and white</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_porcupine_ninja/pseuds/rainbow_porcupine_ninja'>rainbow_porcupine_ninja</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>you showed me love [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mickey is in love ok, Mutual Pining, POV Mickey, Swearing, because they fuck all the time ngl, but ignoring everything that happens after it for a hot minute, but nothing explicit, it’s gallavich- what did you expect, kinda- i mean it’s basically fuckbuddies to lovers, set after their first kiss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:15:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,568</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_porcupine_ninja/pseuds/rainbow_porcupine_ninja</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>—But then Ian leans in, smiling, to kiss him lightly on the lips. Like it’s no fucking big deal. </p>
<p>Mickey turns bright red almost immediately out of shock, grumbling slightly and shoving Ian’s shoulder a little. —</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The heat of the summer is making Mickey go a little bit crazy, but he’s got Ian to help him make it through. And slowly but surely, Mickey learns to let down his barriers.</p>
<p>OR: Five times Mickey lets Ian kiss him, and one where he has the guts to do it himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher &amp; Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>you showed me love [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>276</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if the sky is pink and white</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well fuck, I haven’t gotten so invested in a canon couple since malec of 2018.</p>
<p>hope you like it!</p>
<p>the title is from Pink + White by Frank Ocean. Recognise it? It’s from that soft prison scene. An iconic song from an iconic moment.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Close my eyes, I can't erase you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hallucinations, you occupy</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My imagination's running wild</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>New sensations, sweet temptations</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can't tell what's real and what's</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hallucinations </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey wonders, ever the jealous type, if Ian had ever truly kissed his pedo boss properly. Sometimes Mickey even wonders if he has the balls to ask Ian for a kiss himself, just one, just to get the curiosity and loneliness in him over and done with.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only been a few days since Mickey kissed Ian hastily in the van, and Mickey is slowly losing his mind meeting after fucking meeting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been a few days since Mickey’s gotten shot in the ass, and now the image of Ian kissing him back has melted and resolidified in his mind as something that he wants to happen again. Now he’s starting to pick up on too much of Ian’s shit; his little glances towards Mickey when they share a cigarette, the brush of his shoulder when they walk into the back room of the Cash and Grab. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey doesn’t know what to do with this newfound </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> they have going, now that he’s letting himself see more to Ian than the sex. So he just desperately tries to ignore the brush of their hands against each other, or the fact that they’re meeting up now without sex sometimes, just to talk and soak up the day together. Like they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>dating</span>
  </em>
  <span> now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ever since Mickey got shot, he’s been almost worried that Ian will want more from him. He remembers after the first time they fucked, rough and angry, when Ian stepped towards him hopefully with the intent to start something Mickey wasn’t ready for. He still isn’t sure what he’s ready for, and whether or not Ian’s on the same page. So they just keep doing their fucking thing, and Mickey pretends that he’s not erupting like some whipped gay volcano every time Ian smiles down at him, reckless and bright. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s dad’s gone back into the joint recently, probably for another few months. So their summer is spent more and more in Mickey’s bedroom, which is excellent but also terrifying. It feels so much more quiet and tender, fucking in a bed, and sometimes Mickey closes his eyes and imagines that they have their own place now, without their shitty families and fucked up neighborhood.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ian brings Mickey back down to earth when he leaves for the evening, leaves him to stare up at the cracked ceiling and wonder what on earth he’s done this time to get Ian to take the hint and leave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was always you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Falling for me</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Now there's always time</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Calling for me</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm the light blinking at the end of the road</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Blink back, to let me know</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a mild Sunday evening, and Mickey has once again found himself pinned to his own sheets, face pressed to the pillow as Ian swiftly rolls in and out above him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually he lies back on his messy bed, breaths coming in deep pants. Ian pulls out gently, rolling the condom off and coming back just minutes later to climb back into bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>This would normally be the point where Ian stands up to find his shirt where it lies strewn across the floor, and leaves quietly out the window. Mickey quietly mourns the bubbly excitement he always feels in the pit of his stomach when Ian shoots him a small, secret smile just for him as he slips out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet Ian slips into Mickey’s bed again, covering his mouth with a yawn, and brushes a hand across Mickey’s shoulder softly. He closes his eyes, leaving Mickey to stare wide-eyed at the top of Ian’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve never done this before; Mickey never lets him get close enough to be able to watch him. So he takes the opportunity to study the individual freckles that paint Ian’s face turn golden in the setting sun, which has started to creep through the windows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shifts his body so that their legs are tangled together under the sheets, and now Mickey has a better view of Ian’s muscular shoulders, his bare chest. He almost looks godlike in Mickey’s bed, and Mickey can’t stop looking, drinking him up with his gaze. He can’t help it; Ian is the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What you staring at, Milkovich?” Ian mumbles, propping his head up onto his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those damn muscles, Mickey thinks, and averts his eyes hopelessly. “Fuck you is what I’m staring at. You gonna split or what, firecrotch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hopes Ian notices his pleading gaze, the way his telltale fingers wrap around Ian’s wrist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmmm….” Ian pauses for a moment, pretending to think. “No, I’m comfortable here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sneaks an arm around Mickey’s waist and pulls him closer, burrowing his head into Mickey’s chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A couple months ago, Mickey would have shoved him out and offhandedly called him a fag. But they’re both exhausted and spent, and Mickey knows that Ian’s having a hard time at home with his mom around, so he doesn’t push it. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he nestles his nose into Ian’s soft hair and inhales deeply. That it’s just an act of kindness, not a hopeless attempt at melding their bodies together so Ian can never leave. Ian’s smell of shampoo and something musky immediately calms Mickey’s rattling heart— it’s clearly been revealing how shaky the close contact is making him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m such a fag</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mickey thinks hopelessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, as if on cue, Ian lifts his head drowsily and kisses him lightly. Mickey doesn’t even have the time to react.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is the softest kiss Mickey’s ever felt, even though he hasn’t really had that many to compare; just a gentle brush of lips that only lasts for a second or two. Yet Mickey has to force himself to breathe again, something weak lodged in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soft bastard,” Mickey whispers. He tells himself he doesn’t have the heart to lash out; but deep down he knows that he doesn’t want to back down from Ian ever again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Take what you want, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants to whisper into the darkness. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss me, hold my hand. I’ll try my best to let you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian grins at the reaction, then settles back down against Mickey’s chest. “You love it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey grins, because of course he loves it, and of course Ian knows this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian nestles into the warmth of the embrace they’ve created with each other. Mickey allows himself to card his fingers through red, red hair and falls, falls, falls into a restless sleep, if only for a while.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I could make it for you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>'Cause you're so beautiful</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd rather drink you up</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Mickey reaches the dugout, Ian’s already there, messing around on the bar he’s been using for pull-ups. Mickey spots a six-pack of his favourite beer next to Ian’s backpack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Mick,” Ian says, hopping down with such enthusiasm that makes Mickey want to punch something. Or kiss him. He immediately refuses to think too much about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian steps forward, bringing his hand up to brush Mickey’s hair out of his eyes. Mickey hasn’t cut it yet because he’s been too fucking lazy and too fucking busy. But if Ian keeps touching him like that, hey, there’s another excuse not to, he supposes offhandedly to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Ian leans in, smiling, to kiss him lightly on the lips. Like it’s no fucking big deal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns bright red almost immediately out of shock, grumbling slightly and shoving Ian’s shoulder a little. Ian knows, however, judging by his little smirk and the way he steps closer once more, that Mickey will never hate Ian’s kisses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian chuckles, a sweet sound that sends Mickey plummeting, then Ian catches him again with the brush of fingers against clothing. He always does. “I never knew you had the ability to blush like that. It’s pretty cute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call me fucking cute again and I’ll rip your throat out,” Mickey mutters, studying the dirt below him like it might help him out with this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t normally blush, but Ian’s made him. He doesn’t kiss, but Ian kisses him. He doesn’t catch feelings, but, well, here he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian bows his head in recognition, but that bastard probably already knows that Mickey’s threats are always empty around him. “Whatever you say, Mickey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly Mickey can’t stand this closeness, this tension that’s building and building and threatening to devour him, because Ian’s standing right there, heart open, and Mickey doesn’t feel ready yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he does what a Milkovich does best. Runs away from his problems. He cautiously breaks away from Ian, and backs away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have something I forgot to do. I’ll see you around, okay?” he grunts, flipping himself over the gate as fast as he can and walking in the other direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, what’s up? Where are you going?” Ian calls after him, his voice carrying in the night air, but Mickey’s long gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>///</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian looks up from where he was reading behind the till. Mickey isn’t in the mood for chit chat, he just shoots Ian one of his best ‘come hither’ looks and walks into the back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian follows, as usual, but not without questions. “Hey, Mick. You alright? Is something wrong? You ran off yesterday and didn’t even come back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Everything’s fine, firecrotch. Now, do you wanna chat some more or you wanna get on me?” he sneers, turning around, hands flat against the metal wall and letting Ian reach around for his belt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Secrets I have held in my heart</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Are harder to hide than I thought</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I just wanna be yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Mickey,” Ian says easily as Mickey climbs over the fence and hops over to the other side, where Ian’s leaning up against the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey grunts out a greeting. “You have any cigarettes? I’m all out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian pulls out a box from his back pocket, smiling a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll never guess who I ran into today,” Mickey grumbles, once he’s lighting a cigarette. “Old fucking Jake. Again. He was right outside my house this time!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Surely he knows better not to fucking try anything like last time,” Ian says, head tipping back with laughter. Mickey watches that long expanse of neck like a hawk. “This is the fourth time this week…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s just fucking it, Ian, I don’t think this baggy cocksucker has any idea what the rules of this neighborhood is,” Mickey bursts out. “He ain’t that new to the area, all I have to do is real it in, give him a good talking to. I bet he’s a real pervert, maybe I could talk to Iggy about it…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey knows he’s getting worked up, a mixture of agitation and panic at the way Ian’s looking at him as he’s talking. But he never wants Ian to stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s just got that look in his eye, and the way he fucking walks makes me very uncomfortable,” Mickey continues. “He looks like the type of guy who’d be planning something…” he trails off in surprise as Ian leans over to close the gap between their lips, brushing his nose against Mickey’s cheek gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he pulls back, those beautiful slender fucking hands still resting on Mickey’s face, Mickey punches him lightly in the arm. “The fuck was that for, Cinderella?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian tilts his head, smirking, and Mickey watches the receding rays of sunlight hit Ian’s brown eyes in such a way that makes him melt a little on the inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Mickey pulls himself together again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were talking too much,” Ian sneers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re one to—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets cut off again as Ian, rolling his eyes, pulls their mouths together again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey makes a noise, helpless against the pushing force of Ian’s tirade against his mouth. There it is— that little switch in his brain, the choice to push away or pull close, the decision that Mickey always has to make by himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Mickey grabs Ian’s wrist to keep him there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t run away</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and takes Ian’s bottom lip into his mouth, his throat constricting. He can feel Ian smiling, his nose gently digging into Mickey’s cheek as he kisses Mickey’s breath away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turns into something sloppy and messy, but Mickey allows himself to savour it, allows himself to be kissed like this. Their height difference is so perfect for this, Mickey thinks dazedly, because Ian always leans down perfectly to match their lips together and all Mickey has to do is tilt up his head. He feels like he could do this forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ian’s hand runs through his short hair, and Mickey twitches a little, never ready for the contact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It causes Ian to push back with a final short press of lips to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, searching his eyes. Mickey finds himself leaning forward, chasing Ian’s mouth subconsciously, before internally panicking. He starts to fiddle with his sleeves just for something to do, trying to fight down the blush that threatens to take over his entire body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a second Mickey glances back up at Ian, who’s still staring at him like he hung the stars or something. Mickey wants to push at him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>be careful</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for it’s too tender and a little too much. Beautiful gazes like these aren’t meant for someone like him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay, Mick?” Ian asks, too gently, too softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey nods, looking down again, and pulling another cigarette out of Ian’s box. “Light me up?” he mutters, cursing how hoarse and raw his voice sounds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s still gazing at him as he flicks on his lighter; still staring at him like he’s someone special.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Loser,” Mickey mutters in self-defence, hoisting up his protective barrier once again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian doesn’t seem to mind the change, taking the cigarette from Mickey’s lips with slender, beautiful fingers. Mickey could wax poetic about those stupid, freckly hands if he only had the words, but he doesn’t, so he leans against the fence of the dugout and gazes back at Ian as he lifts the cigarette to his reddened lips and takes a drag.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s forgotten completely about Jake, or about his dad going back into the joint, or any of his problems, because Ian’s looking at him with those green eyes, and Mickey can’t help but stare back. They sit there for a while, just passing the cigarette between them and stealing glances late into the afternoon.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>'Cause I'm stuck in the sunshine riptide</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dancing all alone in the morning light</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The sunshine riptide</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You came in like a wave when I was feeling alright</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and Mickey has nothing better to do than watch Ian exercise on the makeshift training spot he’s created for himself on the flat surface of an abandoned building’s roof.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has Lip broken up with Karen yet?” Mickey calls down, trying to sound bored and uninterested. And it’s true, he doesn’t really give a shit about Lip, but Ian does, and he glances up at Mickey for a second, a surprised look crossing his sweaty face, before continuing to do his pull-ups. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not yet, but they had another argument yesterday about their prom, so it’s any second now,” Ian grunts. “Karen’s no good for him anyway, if you ask me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey stares at Ian for a moment as he finishes the pull-ups, watching sweat roll down Ian’s neck like something in a goddamn porno. Then pulls out his gun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come down from up there and help me train, fuckwad,” Ian eventually calls up to Mickey from where he’s started to shoot at glass bottles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shoots at the barrel near where Ian stands, and he yelps. “Watch it, honey,” Ian hisses, yet he’s grinning like some sort of maniac.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s stomach gives out some sort of pleasant twist at the pet name. Ian’s gaze follows him as he hops down from his ledge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t call me honey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetheart</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Mickey taunts. Ian laughs loudly, a bright, happy sound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can I help you fucking train?” Mickey asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ain’t going to the fucking army, there’s no chance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian rolls his eyes and moves to one of the training pads nearby. “Here, sit down right here in front of me, that’s it, put your shoes on top of mine— Okay, now you’re going to count my sit ups.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d better find a way to make this interesting, Gallagher,” Mickey drawls, following Ian’s movements with his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I ain’t here to entertain you, Mick,” Ian growls, grabbing a medicine ball and laying down on the floor in front of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck am I doing here, then, you pussy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian rolls his eyes once more, like he expected some sort of comment like that. “Fine. We’ll count them some other, fun way. Lean in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey watches Ian wryly as he performs a single sit up. “What are you fuckin— Mmph.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jerks back, shoving Ian harshly in the shoulder. “You can’t just do that, man,” he hisses, looking around in case anyone is around, but the area’s still deserted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian moves back down to the floor, then moves swiftly back up to press a quick kiss to Mickey’s lips again. “Two,” he breathes, smirking as Mickey stutters out an ‘unh’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t just keep me quiet like that, Gallagher,” he says once he’s found his voice again. Yet he finds himself leaning in more for the third one, letting Ian leave him a quick smacking kiss, then watching as Ian grunts as he moves back down once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels red-hot fire creeping up his neck and spreading across his face as Ian continues onto three, four five. By the time he kisses Mickey for the 10th time, the kisses have gotten sloppier and sillier; one on his nose, one on the dimple on his cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun’s so bright, and Mickey thinks that Ian’s going to kill him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ian pauses for a moment, breaths coming in slow pants. He readjusts his grip on the ball and lays back down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hope this is keeping you going good, Gallagher, ‘cause you got 30 more reps to do,” Mickey breathes, stumbling on his words a little. His palms are sweaty, so he wipes them on his jeans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Ian’s done, placing one last kiss right on Mickey’s lips, Mickey’s a shaking mess-- he has never been kissed so thoroughly before. Ian stands up, brushing himself off, and that’s that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey lays down on the floor and closes his eyes to shut the blinding sun out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I had no chance to prepare</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I couldn't see you coming</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The start of nothing</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I could hate you now</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It's quite alright to hate me now</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When we both know that deep down</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The feeling still deep down is good</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, Mickey follows Ian into the heat of the afternoon, letting the door slam on the way out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… Do you want to go grab a bite to eat? Or… go grab a drink?” Ian asks quietly, scuffing his dirty shoes against the blackened pavement outside the Cash and Grab.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey looks at him for a moment, taking in this wrecked sight in front of him; messy hair, agitated expression, biting his lip like there’s a possibility that Mickey could say no. Mickey wants to remember this version of Ian forever, all wrecked and anxious and hopeful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grab a drink? Firecrotch, it’s like, 4 in the afternoon,” Mickey grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shrugs. “Up to you, Mickey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, like I’m some faggy girl? You know I don’t fuck with that shit,” Mickey says eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that a yes or no?” Ian asks, the corner of his lip pulling up a little. Smug bitch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey glances across the road, just in case anyone’s watching. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. I need to drop off something for Carl, then I’ll meet you at the Alibi, yeah?” Ian’s eyes sparkle a little bit as he jigs around a bit, ever restless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be there,” Mickey agrees eventually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian grins at him. “You’d better be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>///</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Mickey,” Ian greets as he slides into the booth in front of him. Mickey nods in return, sipping his beer to give himself something to do. He prays to whatever gods are up there that this whole shit isn’t going to be awkward, because if it is, he will literally jump into Lake Michigan with weights strapped to his ankles. Because he’s never done any of this shit before, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, your dad’s in prison again,” Ian says in lieu of starting a conversation that Mickey really doesn’t want to have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this is Ian, and he’s trying, so Mickey will try too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says as Ian takes a sip of his own beer. “He is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>///</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, you pissing on fourth base in Little League, huh?” Ian starts after a lull in conversation, smirking into his second drink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey almost spits out his own beer, all over the table. “What the fuck you bringing that up for, huh?” he splutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian laughs. “I don’t know… I’m just reminiscing, I suppose.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at Mickey with those gentle, gentle eyes, and Mickey absently finds himself chewing on his lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if we’re dragging up shit, I do remember catching you out years ago with that seventh grader in the boys’ locker rooms— jerking each other off,” Mickey retorts. “You’re lucky I didn’t beat the shit out of you then, Gallagher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you?” Ian says, wheezing a little and leaning across the table a little bit. “You beat up everyone else. Why not me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shrugs. “Had… a fucking soft spot for you even then, I suppose. You and that alien-looking skin, fucking carrot-top, freckles everywhere…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian gapes at Mickey as he trails off. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” He sputters, laughing incredulously. “You almost stabbed me with a pencil seven times in biology. And you’re telling me that you had the hots for me this entire time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>hots</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Mickey mocks. “I wouldn’t fucking call it that, Cinderella. Why you gotta twist my words like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s this softness that seeps into Ian’s expression after that. He places his hand on the table between them, the back of his hand flat on the table, as some sort of ultimatum. An offer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey takes a rather large gulp of his beer.  Then he takes Ian’s hand, staring pointedly at his glass. Ian’s fingers soft and delicate; he has fucking lady hands, yet they’re so much bigger than Mickey’s. Yet somehow Mickey finds that he doesn’t mind that at all. He moves his tongue around, in between his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ian speaks again. “You know, it was the pencils that did it for me. Back in the sixth grade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both burst out into chaotic laughter that turns heads all across the bar, but Mickey doesn’t give a shit because Ian Gallagher is holding his hand, and he feels like he could take on the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They leave an hour later, Ian following Mickey out the door and into the cold of the evening. Mickey’s voice feels kinda hoarse from talking so much— so this is what a date is, he thinks, and risks a glance to the boy next to him, wondering if this was Ian’s first proper date with someone his own fucking age. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Ian asks, stepping ever closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shrugs, forcing himself to keep his feet planted on the floor. “I gotta pick something up for Iggy, I suppose. Should do that soon, if I can be fuckin’ bothered.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I come with you?” Ian asks, that bright grin of his spreading across his face as he crowds Mickey into the brick wall behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he leans in and kisses Mickey deeply for a few seconds. Mickey’s head hits the brick as Ian’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and he swallows as Ian pulls away, looking around to see if anyone’s watching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey doesn’t really know what to do now-- does he kiss Ian back? Just carry on? So he laughs in response to the previous question, something a little bit awkward and a little bit scared, but nods. “Do whatever you want, firecrotch.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>That nickname never fails to make Ian smile. He drops a fleeting kiss on Mickey’s cheek and Mickey can’t help grinning back. “C’mon, red,” Mickey mutters, pushing Ian back onto the street. “Don’t slow me down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turns out that they have to walk to the other side of town, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind, numbed a little bit by the alcohol from before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey thinks about holding Ian’s hand; the alleyways are deserted, and, Mickey will admit, no one really gives a shit about them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then their hands brush just slightly as they walk closer to each other, and Mickey forgets how to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly he doesn’t want to do this anymore. He wants to turn around and just run away from this, like the fucking pussy that he is. He wants to move to Milwaukee and never feel this wonderful ever again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, for someone who dropped out of school before the 9th grade, you think </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> too fucking much,” Ian says conversationally, an unrecognisable glint in his eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their hands brush together again, and Mickey can feel Ian’s burning gaze on his wrist. Then their hands are laced together, and it’s all fine again somehow. Mickey doesn’t feel like running anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian grins, running his thumb over the vein on Mickey’s wrist, and they continue walking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re turning me into such a fag, Red,” Mickey decides to push out of his chest after a moment, when Ian’s smile has subsided a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who, me?” Ian says cheekily as he brings their hands up to drop a small kiss to Mickey’s wrist. “Red-headed alien freak over here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grins, shoving Ian’s shoulder with his other hand. Ian shoves back with his elbow, the sides of their body clashing together wonderfully, and Mickey breathes again. They chase each other up into the streets until Mickey’s forgotten why they’ve come to this damn neighborhood in the first place—</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then they walk back together in the darkness. And Mickey lets Ian hold his hand the entire way home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And I pull you in closer</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You got me hooked and you know it</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You're like a gamble</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But I love playing it loose</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s barely midday when Mickey crashes through Ian’s window and rolls onto Ian’s bed, resulting in Ian squawking and hitting Mickey violently with a textbook.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing here, Mickey?” Ian asks, but his eyes pull up at the corners a little. “Thought we were going to meet at the dugout later on tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey tilts his head to the side in response, still pressing his own body up against Ian for a little while longer. “Just felt like seeing you sooner, dumbass. Now what can I do to get a beer around here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Alright, jerk. You’re gonna have to get off me first, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey grunts, and lays there for a minute, just taking in Ian’s rumpled sweater and growing smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he rolls over and lets Ian dart downstairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finally admits to himself as he stares up at the ceiling that hasn’t been able to stop thinking about kissing Ian, running his fingers through Ian’s cropped hair, pulling him closer. He wants to be the one to initiate something sometimes, and fuck him if that makes him soft, but he can’t help but want to make Ian feel something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There have been moments where he’s thought about it, he has to admit. He’s just never had the courage. The truth is, he didn’t expect to get so attached to someone so easily or so quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian creeps in after a few minutes to find Mickey still laying on his bed, eyes squeezed tightly shut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t have any beer,” Ian whispers, as if to not disturb the fragile silence. As if he’s scared it might break. “This bottle of overpriced whiskey seems to be the only fucking alcohol in the house, thanks to Frank.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey opens his eyes, grunting out his annoyance. Ian climbs in next to him, popping the glass bottle open with a sideways glance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey breathes out, slowly and shakily, and notices something familiar boiling up inside him, like a gas leak. It’s not a bad feeling, just something that Ian’s been making him feel for months now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian takes a long swig, wincing as the whiskey burns his throat, but Mickey reaches over him to snatch the bottle and set it over on the nightstand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t let Ian say anything; he just swings over onto Ian’s lap and presses his lips to Ian’s hesitantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets no reaction, just stunned silence, Mickey grits his teeth and sits back on his haunches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, red, that was stupid,” he whispers, the blush that creeps up his cheeks giving it all away. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> stupid, and it wasn’t a good kiss, Mickey knows. Nothing like the kisses Ian’s used to giving out; it was just lips against lips, nose against cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Ian smiles, huffing out a tiny laugh, and moves to cup Mickey’s cheek. “Hang on, give a man a second. What was that for, Mick? You’ve surprised the shit outta me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shrugs, clinging to the urge to curl up and hide somewhere. “Just… felt like it. Not a crime, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not at all,” Ian breathes. “Please… do it again. Whenever you feel like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Mickey moves slowly to press the tiniest kiss to Ian’s cheek, then sits back again. “I’m… not used to this,” he says shakily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian smiles, a little bit red too. “What, kissing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Me</span>
  </em>
  <span> kissing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Mickey clarifies, glancing sideways at him to watch his reaction. Ian’s mouth opens a little, but Mickey continues desperately. “And I’ve… never done this with anyone else. If that wasn’t painfully clear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Ian chokes out. It’s a very quiet sound, the barest puff of air, and it makes Mickey raise his head to look at Ian, really </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m honored,” Ian finishes quietly, and cups Mickey’s face with both hands. The gentleness can almost be tasted on Mickey’s tongue. “Please, kiss me again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no snarky comments or arguing now, just Mickey leaning in to kiss Ian and reaching up to entwine their hands on Mickey’s skin. Ian sighs into it, and moves his head to find a better angle, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s better</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mickey thinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So many things are starting to add up now, like why people spend so much time kissing without fucking. Like how people can be in committed relationships, like how Mickey wants to learn to love Ian; he wants to try to give everything to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian pulls back for a moment, a beautiful smile dawning on his face like a sunrise, and Mickey realises he’s tearing up. Like some loser.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, tough guy,” Ian says softly. “What’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just-” Mickey blurts out, not knowing how to say this without wanting to leave the fucking room. Because he wants to try. He wants to stay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he pulls their entwined hands to rest just above his heart. “Right here,” he whispers, like speaking any louder will break this lovely, tearing pain inside his chest. “Do you feel it too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s smile grows. “You mean love, Mick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey opens his mouth and closes it again, brows furrowing. “I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s okay,” Ian reassures, long fingers squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to worry about it, okay? </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, after a brief second: “I feel it too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey breathes out a sigh, something a bit like relief and a little like hope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ian leans in again, and Mickey works on pulling Ian closer like he’s always wanted to, touching that space near the small of Ian’s back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Years later, when the sun is long gone and the bottle of whiskey is still full, they break apart slowly. Ian scrambles around to get under the dark covers of the small bed, and Mickey follows quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they’re settled, Ian pulls Mickey close without a second thought, and they exchange gazes with each other in the lingering darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey touches his swollen lips absently, noticing the pleasant vibrating ache. So this is what it’s like to kiss someone, he thinks, and wonders how his lips might look to someone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he catches Ian gazing at them with a little smile on his face, and decides that he doesn’t have to wonder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fag,” Mickey mumbles, tugging up a little bit of that barrier that he’s built for himself over years and years of pain, and Ian understands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey loves him for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian kisses the tip of his nose. “Takes one to know one, bitch,” he whispers into the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey can breathe once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So many</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bright lights that cast a shadow</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But can I speak?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, is it hard understanding</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm incomplete?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A life that's so demanding</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I get so weak</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A love that's so demanding</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can't speak</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i figured that there are 3 steps to writing Mickey:<br/>1. swearing a lot. if you think there are too many swear words, you’re wrong.<br/>2. grumpey<br/>3. p i n e </p>
<p>all jokes aside, I really feel like I connected with Mickey through my writing, and I love that for me.</p>
<p>here are all the songs I used for the breaks: hallucinations by PVRIS, Always by Panic! At the Disco, Holy by King Princess, I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys, Sunshine Riptide by Fall Out Boy, Ivy by Frank Ocean, Breathe by Mako and Famous Last Words by MCR.</p>
<p>*comments and kudos will repair my cold, dead heart! thank you for reading!*</p>
<p>also find me on tumblr @rainbowdolphinsattack and we can cry together</p></blockquote></div></div>
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